Fix It
by Osidiano
Summary: An "I've been breaking my phone on purpose because you work at the cell phone repair store" AU based on a Tumblr prompt. Bucky didn't mean to break his phone in the middle of a lukewarm date. But that ends with him at S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs, and the guy who works there is downright sinful. The first time he busts his phone is an accident. Every time thereafter...? Ye-ah, not so much.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** For tracionn, who runs a great Tumblr stucky blog. Excessive Army references/Airforce jokes are included in an attempt to make Dogtagsandsmut smile (because I need a battle buddy in this fandom). I have no idea where I'm going with this or how long it will be. Bucky accidentally telling Steve to call him by his nickname is definitely an AU headcanon I picked up after reading Break or Broke by grayangel over on AO3. Warnings for this fic include lots of explicit language, dirty thoughts, mutual pining, and dumb Brooklyn boys being dumb.

EDIT: I've made some minor changes to this fic since its original posting after someone on Tumblr pointed out that it's kind of a dick move for writers to give Bucky a sleeve tattoo in AUs instead of a prosthetic; it hadn't occurred to me before, but yeah, it totally is, and I'm sorry it had to be explicitly brought to my attention for me to realize that.

* * *

Chapter 1.

The first time it happens, it is an honest-to-God accident.

"Fuuuuuuck," the word drags out of his mouth as he watches his phone slip and start the long drop towards the tiled floor as if in slow-motion. He should have spent the extra money on a better case, he thinks, as it hits and the screen cracks like the fragile thing that it is. Clint had sworn up and down that his Otterbox case had stopped a bullet during their last deployment, which Natasha said was bullshit, but conceded that it did save the phone when they drove over it with an up-armored LMTV once.

But that was then, and this is now. And now, James Barnes is picking up a $600 phone that was _one single fucking day_ over its warranty and he doesn't have insurance that would have covered this anyway. Because of course it wouldn't. This is his life.

"Ooooo, that sucks, man," Natasha's friend informs him, as if James somehow doesn't already know it. He makes a face at the man — tall, attractive, black, too bad he was former Airforce; what was his name? Fuck it, his phone is way more important right now — and cradles the phone to his chest. Maybe he can give it CPR or something. Hook it up to a car battery and shock it until it crackles back to life à la Frankenstein. James taps the home button, and frowns when the screen lights up. Everything looks distorted, and there are two black blotches of pixels he's concerned about. It doesn't register his finger when he tries to touch any of the barely visible app icons.

"My baby," he whispers to the phone, heart-broken. He totally cannot afford a new phone right now. James isn't living in total squalor these days — his apartment lacks bugs and gross smells, which had been his only requirements when looking for a place to rent after leaving the Army — but the phone had been his back-Stateside present to himself and he wasn't making hazard pay at his new job. Which, now that he thinks about it, is total bullshit; he has stopped more attempted stabbings outside of the bar he's been working at for the last four months than he had during his first three deployments combined. "My poor, sweet baby. . ."

"You think it's broken?" Natasha's friend asks. James nods but doesn't look up. If Natasha had actually been there instead of ditching like the heartless icebitch she's always been, this wouldn't have happened. She would have caught his phone with her ninja ballerina skills or something. Or maybe she should have never called them both out to coffee on a crappy wet Tuesday morning. It is infinitely easier to blame Natasha's poor matchmaking skills than to admit that James hasn't been able to not klutz his way through a date since 2004.

He was an actual Ranger, damnit, why is he on a coffee date with some dude who used to be in the Chairforce?

James groans and puts his face on the small table between them. Holy fuck. He has become 'That Friend.' 'That Fucked Up Former Army Friend.' He used to be all high-speed, low-drag, squared-the-fuck-away. Now he is a soup sandwich. A soup sandwich with a busted phone. This is his life.

"Fuuuuuuuck," James repeats. "I'm dying. This is it. I'm not gonna make it. Tell my sister that I love her, and that Clint still owes me thirty dollars and a bottle of whiskey. Leave me here to my misery."

"That's a little dramatic, don't you think, James?"

"You don't understand this kind of loss."

"I am literally a grief counselor at the VA."

"You shouldn't judge how people grieve, then; everyone is different," he parrots back the bullshit lines he's been hearing since his squad came back from downrange. And it is bullshit, at least to James. He didn't need shrinks and tearful group sobfests when he came back. He took his honorable discharge, got a great big ol' tattoo to cover up the skin grafts and scars all up and down his left side and shoulder, and went home to New York. James had gotten a phone, a prosthetic arm, and then an apartment, in that order.

Natasha's friend laughs, shakes his head — and man, he is super cute with those big eyes and bigger smiles, it's a shame that their first date is totally tarnished with the whole phone breaking thing — and points down the street. "There is an Apple Store on the corner. You could get a new one."

He has had this phone for three hundred and sixty-six days. The only thing he has owned longer than this phone right now are his fucking dogtags. He glares at his date, who is suddenly not as cute as he was five seconds ago. "You can't replace a loved one when they die. You're fuckin' heartless, man. 'Grief counselor,' my ass. I'm grieving. You're not counseling."

"It is an iPhone, not a child or something you personally crafted in your garage out of salvaged computer parts."

"Still not comforting me in my time of need."

Flyboy sighs, and yes, he has been demoted to 'flyboy' instead of 'Natasha's friend' because for real? Fuck this, man. Fuck this whole day. James is going home to cry and have Clint call up all their old Army buddies to set up a funeral for his phone. Thor would probably help him build one of those Viking funeral boats that he can set on fire. Thor is a good guy like that; he understands that sometimes the only way to get over something is to drink a lot and burn everything to the ground. Way better guy than Flyboy.

"So get it repaired."

James looks up with a pout, and damn, is he good at pouting. Like, he hasn't pouted at anybody since he was trying to convince Becky to send him a Penthouse magazine and some Lucky Strikes with his next care package, and that had been through a grainy stalling Skype call, but he can tell that he totally hasn't lost his touch. Flyboy groans, rolling his head back to look up at the ceiling beseechingly, and hey. Hey, now. James Barnes might be a living 'Infantry What The Fuck Moment' right now, but that doesn't mean anybody needs to be calling on the Big Man Upstairs for strength.

"You got a pen?" Flyboy asks, and James finally sits back with a scowl, shaking his head as he takes a long drink from his coffee. They should have gotten to-go cups. His date mutters something which sounds suspiciously like 'of course not,' and gets up to bother one of the baristas at the counter for a pen. He returns with a napkin, which has an address — that he will need to take the subway to get to — and what James assumes is the name of a business — 'S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs' — on it, in neat blue lettering, all caps. "Here: I have a buddy who's good with his hands. Ask for Steve, tell him I sent you, and he'll probably give you a discount on the repairs."

* * *

James heads to S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs as soon as they've finished their drinks, and as he pushes the door to the little shop open, he realizes he probably should have asked Flyboy what his name was so he could get that discount. Normally he would have just asked Natasha, but he can't send a snarky text with no phone. So, whatever it costs, he'll just have to suck it up and whine about it later.

The skinny guy at the counter has his head down, a sketchbook laid open in front of him as he goes over pencil lines with a black ink pen. He's doing something artsy with the shadows that makes James think of the comic books he used to read when he was kid, and doesn't seem to have noticed anyone come in. James makes it all the way up to the counter before the guy looks up.

And just ruins James's entire life. Like, fucks him up bad and leaves him breathless and his heart pounding in his chest like he's coming under fire, pinned down without backup or exit strategy. This punk, he thinks, _this_ fucking _punk_. He has no damn business working at a cell phone repair store.

This guy is fucking _gorgeous_. James's brain kind of. . . fizzles, shorts out, catching on details while he tries to think of something to say. Strong jaw so pronounced that it just makes James want to scrape his teeth across it and lick back to the guy's ear to see if he's sensitive. A slightly crooked nose like he broke it one too many times and it never quite healed right. Pinkest, softest looking mouth he's ever seen on a guy outside of a porno, lips parted a little like he's about to say something but just hasn't thought it through quite yet. James hadn't believed that people could look like they were made to be in porn, but this guy's fucking _mouth_ is like a revelation. That mouth is made to suck cock. Like, it should be an actual crime that this guy does not have a dick in his mouth right now.

He lets his own gaze crawl further up the guy's face to where big blue eyes are wide behind thick black hipster glasses, trying hard not to let it show that he is thinking about blowjobs. It is a losing battle. The guy is looking up at him because he's quite a bit shorter than James and he's leaning on the counter still. James is close enough to see that the guy has these ridiculous fucking eye lashes, and the only way he can think about something other than this guy looking up at him from a kneeling position with his mouth full is to think about bending him over the counter and fingering his ass. He hasn't even seen this guy's ass but it's probably slim and pretty like the rest of him.

Well, _fuck_.

It occurs to him kind of belatedly that they are just staring at each other, and James is probably gaping like the absolute loser that he is. It is not his fault, he tells himself. He was not prepared for hot blond guys to be working at the repair shop. The cell phone repair shop. That he came into because his phone is busted. Yeah, man, he needs to get his phone to work again.

He's on a mission here. _Focus_. Jesus Christ, he used to be a fucking _sniper_ , he can focus long enough to get his phone fixed.

"Uh. . . I'm lookin' fer Steve?" he says, coughs a little to clear his throat and tries not to be awkward. The guy isn't wearing a name tag, but he glances down at his faded shirt — Fall Out Boy concert tee, probably from like, six years ago or something; shit, James doesn't know, he hasn't been following tour schedules since he enlisted — like he expects to find one there. James uses this moment as an excuse to let his eyes crawl over the guy's narrow chest.

"Okay," the guy says, and his voice is a lot deeper than James was expecting and it goes straight to his crotch. _Fuuuuck_. He brushes blond hair off his forehead, smoothing it off to one side as he straightens up. His hands seem big compared to the small, compactness of the rest of him. Compact is a good, descriptive term, James thinks, since it would be pretty easy for him to pick this guy up.

And his brain _immediately_ goes to wall sex, to lifting this guy up by the thighs and pinning him as he pounds up into his ass. Of course it does. His dick twitches gamely in his jeans and James shifts a little, hoping that he's not being an obvious creep.

"That would be me," the guy clarifies after another second of them awkwardly staring at each other. Of course it would be him. Fuck his life, his whole life, right now. When his phone is working again, James is going to call Natasha and tell her she's the worst human being on the planet and that he hates her.

Oh, that's right. His phone is busted. He's here about a phone, not to eye-fuck the guy working the counter.

"I broke it," James says quickly and takes the device out of his pocket to set it on the counter between them as proof. "Heard you were good with your hands."

It sounds like an innuendo. He is aware of that the moment the words leave his mouth, and when he thinks about how it must seem when he's been gawking this whole time, it just makes him want to crawl under a rock and die. Steve flushes pink, dropping his chin towards his collarbone as he picks up the phone to examine the damage like it is the most fascinating thing in the world. His ears are red and that blush paints his neck and disappears under his collar. James wants to chase it with his tongue and see how far it goes.

Smooth. Real smooth. James closes his eyes and waits for the ground to open up and swallow him, which it, sadly, does not do.

"Ye-yeah, I can fix it. Looks like it's just a busted screen," Steve says after a moment. "What's your name?"

"Bucky," James replies, and then immediately feels like a dumbass. Why did he say that? Christ, he hasn't been called 'Bucky' since the eighth grade, when he punched his friend Tim Dugan in the face for calling him that in front of his crush. He doesn't even remember who he'd had a crush on at the time, but the fighting had sort of become a thing after that, because if he was willing to punch Tim over it then he had to punch everybody over it.

Steve looks up and smiles at him. "Okay. Bucky." _Fuuuuuuuck_. James doesn't know what it says about him that hearing his childhood nickname in this guy's unfuckingbelievable voice, rolling out of his pornstar mouth, gets him half-hard. "It shouldn't take too long."

Steve ducks down behind the counter for a second and pulls out some tools so he can take the phone apart and put on a replacement screen. The blond works fast and James is still unintentionally looming, trying to come up with something to say as he watches Steve's fingers move. His mouth is dry and his mind is blank. Or rather, it's not emblank/em, it's just way too explicit for friendly conversation. And then Steve is twisting the tiny screws that hold the back and front plate together back on, and ringing him up for repairs and James still hasn't moved or said anything. Opportunity wasted.

"Need anything else? We have covers, if you need one."

James shakes his head and forces a smile, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He has already decided that he needs to come back and try again. So, nope, no, he does not need a protective case for his cell phone. He is going to go home, back everything up on his Cloud and Google drives, wait a couple of days, and jack up his phone again.

"Thanks for stopping in. Try to be more careful with it in the future, Bucky."

This is his life. Of course it is.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs doesn't get a lot of business during the usual work week. Steve doesn't mind, since it gives him time to work on his drawings. His boss doesn't seem to mind, either, so long as the store stays clean, the work gets done, and they don't get any bad customer service reviews online. Business usually picks up around the same time that mid-terms and finals week hits for the local schools and universities, and there's a subtle uptick in traffic on Saturdays and Sundays in the early afternoon, as hungover people realize that they've made terrible decisions the night before and need their phones or laptops fixed as a result. But otherwise, Steve is left to his art to while away the hours at the front counter.

So, when the door opens on Thursday morning, it catches him off guard.

Steve looks up from his sketchbook — he's working on a new piece in pencil, a three-quarters shot of a young man, face partially hidden in shadows — and recognizes the cute brunet from Tuesday.

Is it sad that he recognizes the guy? It's just because Tuesday had been a really slow day, that's all, Steve tells himself. It absolutely has nothing to do with the dimple in the guy's chin, his two day stubble, or the way his damp hair had hung down into his pale eyes then. Nope. Doesn't have anything to do with the broad shoulders or long legs that he's noticing now, either. And Steve is definitely not wondering what the guy looks like shirtless, even if his collarbone would have been at eye level if he took his top off.

Because that hadn't even crossed his mind, not even once, in the day and a half that he's been thinking about this guy.

Because, oh _god_ , Steve has _not_ been thinking about him and his stupid handsome face, _ugh_.

"Hey," he says, trying for a casual greeting to keep his mind off the way his heart stutter-steps in his chest. It's just his usual arrhythmia. He's got a bad heart and a crummy spine and crap lungs. That's why it's hard to breathe right now. It definitely is not because the cute guy from Tuesday has smiled at him. Steve likes the way that he angles his head, chin up and cocked to the side just a little so that he can look down but isn't _looking down_ at Steve, how his mouth curves up higher on one side. On anyone else, he thinks it would look arrogant, but the guy is aces, so it just makes Steve want to climb him like a tree.

 _What_. No, he is totally over that phase in his life where he thinks about banging random strangers on the street. Or getting banged by cute guys in his store. On every available surface. _Damn it_ , why is he still _doing that?_

"Hi."

"Bucky, right?" Steve asks to confirm, because he's pretty sure that's what the guy had said before. And what kind of a name is 'Bucky,' anyway? It's a stupid name, and it shouldn't make him make want to smile back like a total dope. Steve tries to fight it, and fails miserably. On the bright side, at least it's the kind of name that would be easy to scream.

 _For the love of all things good in this world, Rogers, you need to stooooooooop, you are not a horny teenager anymore._

"Yeah," Bucky replies. Steve wonders if that expression counts as a smirk, but doesn't know and hardly cares. He's always been better with pictures than with words, even if he's mostly colorblind and nearly blind-blind without his glasses. They just watch each other quietly for a few moments, until Steve drops his head to look away because he cannot handle this guy's stupid _face_ , dear _god_. His eyes glance over his sketchbook, recognizing now that the shape of his subject's jaw and cheekbones look a little too much like Bucky's to be coincidence, and quickly flips to a blank page. "Give you three guesses why I'm here, and the first two don't count."

 _This is, secretly, the beginning of a porno, and you're here to fuck me until I can't stand._

 _God sent you here to punish me with how unattainably attractive you are for not going to church anymore, which I clearly need to start doing again because I am a terrible human being and I should not be objectifying the shit out of you like this oh my god I'm going straight to Hell._

"You. . . dropped your phone?"

Bucky gives him a one-shouldered shrug and steps up to the counter. Steve gapes at him, a sinking, ominous feeling in his gut. Of course Bucky is a total klutz who can break a phone twice in a week. The world is conspiring against him because he somehow managed to keep his cool last time. Crap. How is he supposed to not come across like an idiot twice? Steve _is_ an idiot, and a loser and a master of putting his foot in his mouth. Oh god, he doesn't know how to talk to boys. Or girls. Or literally anybody on this entire planet.

Damn it, why is he the front desk guy at this stupid store?

"Camera broke," Bucky says after what must have been an awkwardly long pause, rousing Steve from his internal meltdown. He blinks down at the battered cell phone that has miraculously appeared on the counter between them while he was distracted. The back plate is badly scuffed, and it doesn't take Steve long to identify that the lens has been cracked and will need to be replaced. "Think you can fix it?"

They have the parts for it, though it's definitely not Steve's favorite thing to work on. He has to disconnect the front camera and home button cable connectors first so he can release the digitizer and LCD connectors before he can remove the front screen and get to the camera and its tiny little pieces. The bottom bracket of an iPhone camera is practically soldered to the camera lens ring and is a real bitch to work off without breaking. He'll need his tools and some adhesive to fasten the new lens and the bracket back into the rear case. It's a total pain.

He makes the mistake of looking up and instantly regrets having ever taken this job. Bucky's face has smoothed into this open expression of helplessness — complete with big, hopeful puppy eyes — like Steve is the only person who can make this better. Steve grits his teeth and closes his eyes, because _god damn it_ , he does want to make it better. He wants to fix Bucky's phone and make him smile and ask him out and kiss him until they're both breathless and panting and fumbling for belts.

But Steve also wants to punch someone in the face right now. That would be pretty satisfying, too. He would settle for punching someone in the face.

"Ye-yeah, of course," he manages and opens his eyes again. Bucky grins at him like he just announced Christmas was coming early this year. It makes Steve's heart beat too fast and his chest squeeze tight like he might need his inhaler, but he doesn't reach for it because he doesn't want Bucky to know he needs one _ever_ , and _especially_ doesn't want Bucky to know that he needs one as a result of something this lame. He is not a fourteen year old boy with a crush anymore; he is twenty-five and this is _ridiculous_.

 _Damn you, you good-looking bastard._

"Thanks, Steve. You're the best," Bucky tells him, and he sounds like he means it. Steve contemplates slamming his head into a wall until he gives himself a concussion, but just nods and starts twisting off the bottom screws so he can separate the front panel assembly from the rear case. "So. . . uh, you see this a lot? I mean, you probably do, workin' here, an' all, I just. . ."

Oh god, are they really going to try to make small talk?

"Uhm, no, not really."

". . . Right. Okay," Bucky mumbles, cramming his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. Crap. Steve is making this all kinds of awkward. He should say something, right? What do non-losers talk about? He could ask what Bucky does, but is that too personal? Should he stick to phone-related questions? Stuff like, 'how did you break this?' Will that come across as judgmental?

"This happen a lot?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say. Steve is disconnecting the guts of the phone and pulling the screen off to set it down on the counter next to his sketchbook, his eyes trained on his work. Maybe it will be easier if he doesn't have to look at Bucky. Not that he doesn't know exactly what his stupid face looks like, _ugh_.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I shouldn't be trusted with nice things; I can be kind of rough, you know?"

 _No, I don't, but I hope that is an invitation._

"You should get a case," Steve says, because it is more appropriate than asking Bucky if he is also rough in bed. Bucky chuckles at the suggestion, a low rumbling huff of sound that gets Steve shifting, spreading his feet just a little wider behind the counter. He blushes hard when he realizes, and sends up a silent prayer that the action has gone otherwise unnoticed by the brunet.

"I'll think about it," Bucky replies. They fall quiet while Steve works, and maybe it's because he's embarrassed and desperately wants to go hide in the back room, but the brackets hardly give him any trouble. He finishes replacing the camera lens in record time.

"Need anything else?"

Bucky smiles at him and pockets his phone with a shake of his head before pulling his wallet out and paying. "Nah. Thanks again, Steve."

"Uh-huh. Have a good one."

Steve tells himself that he really is trying not to stare at Bucky's ass as he leaves. It is a terrible lie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Phone bouncing contest idea from Tumblr user strike-team-beta. Thank you!

* * *

Chapter 3.

James hasn't been by S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs in four days.

Or, well, he has, he just hasn't been _inside_. James had tried to stop in yesterday, but the shop wasn't open late on Sundays. The day before that, his phone hadn't been busted. He'd been knocking it off counters and tables for days without so much as chipping the glass, and James had been starting to get desperate. That was when he was struck by a bolt of genius in the form of challenging Clint to a cell phone bouncing contest down three flights of stairs in his apartment building.

Clint had kept his phone in its super industrial strength case, of course, so it was no surprise when Thor declared him the winner. James had been expecting that. But with his phone as jacked up as it was now, he was pretty sure it would take Steve a while to fix it.

He may or may not have been practicing terrible lines in his bathroom mirror before heading out. But if he had, that was between James and his reflection and nobody was ever going to find out. _Ever_.

James takes a deep breath and pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets. How is this his life? How are these his decisions? He remembers being all hardcore and shit. Like, 'motivated dedicated super hooah don't fuck with me' levels of badass. A stone-cold, steely-eyed killer. Now his palm gets sweaty while talking to cute boys in cell phone repair shops. He's pretty sure that he could still recite the NCO Creed after ten minutes in the CS chamber, but one look from Steve will get him stumbling over words and forgetting his own name.

James has, in short, become a human clusterfuck.

He wishes he could blame it all on the fact that Steve is a gorgeous little punk who makes him stupid and trips up his tongue something fierce, but James has been a shit show for a while without anyone's help or input. He joked with Natasha that his last boyfriend had been an M24 sniper rifle and he honest to god hasn't been laid in a year. In more than a year now, because his last hookup was a fellow veteran recovering at Walter Reed.

Another minute goes by. James is still standing around outside like a fuckin' mook and starting to panic because he doesn't remember how to flirt. It was a thing he did once, right? Wasn't it? He thinks it must have been, like, back in high school or some shit. Somewhere in the last decade or so he has completely lost the ability to socialize.

Holy fuck. He is the poster boy for 'The Fucked Up Former Army Friends Union.'

"Fuuuuuck," James groans. What the hell is wrong with him right now? He rehearsed this shit like a goddamn board-rat before coming out, and now he's psyching himself out on the sidewalk. James has literally jumped out of airplanes before with less nerve-wracking than this. The shop is open. The door is right in front of him. James has kicked in way more threatening doors than this.

Shit, he can even see that Steve is inside, at his usual place behind the counter, head down as he goes over something in his sketchbook. He's wearing an oversized beanie today that hides his flop of blond hair and a loose sweater with the sleeves pushed up around his elbows. He's just so. . . fuck, he's _so tiny_ and hot, and it makes James want to rip his clothes off and manhandle him over the nearest available surface. Steve's got that voice and that goddamn _mouth_ and all James can think about is all the dirty awful shit he wants to do with it.

At this rate, he's gonna get himself hard before he ever gets inside. James exhales slowly and reaches for the door. He just knows Steve's gonna think he's a desperate loser for breaking his phone a third time. They've installed a little bell since the last time he was in and it makes a light chiming sound as James enters. Steve looks up. James feels his blood rush and his heart stop all at once.

"You again?" Steve asks, a small, lopsided smile spreading across his features. James freezes, thinking for a moment that this asshole has magically developed telepathy before realizing that Steve isn't reacting to the latest x-rated fantasy he was directing in his head. Also, that he sounds genuinely pleased to see him, which hey. That's a good sign. James beams back at him as he sidles up to the counter. "What happened this time?"

"It fell," the lie comes out smooth just like he practiced. Steve huffs a long-suffering sigh and closes his sketchbook, pushing it off to one side to make room on the counter in front of him. He motions for James to give it up.

The baggie James pulls out of his jacket pocket contains a phone that has definitely seen better days. It's nearly in two pieces. Chunks of the shattered screen are actually missing. Steve's expression goes from gently amused to horrified in record time.

"It _fell?_ " the blond repeats, gaping in disbelief as he pokes the phone's carcass through the plastic. "Off of what, Bucky? A _train?_ "

James shifts uncomfortably. Okay, so maybe he overdid it a little this time. He just needed some more time to work through his own ineptitude. Because he's a loser with zero game. What even is his life.

"Can you save it?" he asks instead of answering. Steve looks up with a helpless expression, eyes wide and pleading. Like he wants to beg James not to ask this of him, wants to tell him that this phone is not salvageable. James pouts for a second, then bites down on his lower lip, and absolutely does not miss the way that Steve's gaze flicks down to his mouth at the action.

"I. . ." Steve starts to say, trailing off. He doesn't want to promise James anything.

"Please, Steve?" James pleads, trying to be charming instead of letting on that he's a pathetic garbage sack in desperate need of this beautiful man's pity. Steve looks back down at the phone, his shoulders sagging just a little as he nods and caves to the request.

James's negotiation skills are awesome. He feels like a fucking hero right now. Steve is going to fix his phone. Somebody get out the ticker-tape and the parade floats. 'We Are the Champions' or the theme to 'Rocky' ought to be playing in the background right now. James actually has to repress the urge to bust out his victory dance, which would definitely kill any hope of him ever getting laid again if seen in the light of day, but there's no way for him to keep the triumphant grin off his face. "I knew I could count on you. You're a real life-saver."

Steve makes a noncommittal sound and starts picking at the phone, assessing the damage and pulling replacement parts out from beneath the counter. James tries to engage him in small talk, like he practiced.

Well, if he were the kind of dumbass who needed to practice, but he's clearly _not_ , haha, because he's the fucking _man_ right now. Yeah, he's a beast, he's so smooth, so cool. Steve probably thinks he's all sexy and mysterious and shit. All he has to do is not fuck that up in the next ten seconds.

"So, uh. . . Are you, like, an artist, or just a guy who likes to draw?" James asks, toying with the metal spiral of Steve's sketchbook. Steve glances up from his tools, brows raised. James grimaces.

 _Fuuuuuuuck_. He is. He is absolutely the kind of dumbass who needs to practice. What the fuck did he even just say? Were those words? He could combust from the sheer power of his own awkwardness.

"What's the difference?"

"Uh. . . Well, artists get paid, I guess."

Steve laughs at that, and wow, okay, yeah, James likes that sound. He likes it a lot. "Then I guess I'm mostly just a guy who likes to draw. Every once in a while I get to be an artist, though. Commissions and odd jobs and stuff."

"That's cool. Like, what kinda stuff?"

"Huh? Oh. Uh. . . I've done a couple of comics? Short-runs, no big deal, and I've been brought in as a guest for a coupla issues here and there on other people's projects."

That doesn't sound like 'no big deal' to James. That sounds like Steve is so far out of his league that they might not even be playing the same sport right now. Shit. James is pretty sure that he has done absolutely nothing productive with his life since leaving the Army. "Whaddya mean, 'no big deal?' That's awesome, Steve! Don't sell yourself short. You must be real talented."

The smile that comment earns him is embarrassed and looks good with the little flush that gets paired with it before Steve ducks his head and goes back to piecing together James's phone. They drift off into silence for a few moments while Steve works. He knew the screen was shot to shit, and James had figured that it would need to be replaced, but he wasn't really sure what could be done about the fact that the lower bezel was hanging on by a prayer and some dumb luck.

His poor phone. It didn't deserve this kind of abuse. Honestly, James kinda felt like a dick for this. He and that phone had been through a lot together. It was a good phone. Loyal, non-judgmental. His phone didn't care if he looked up cat videos at three o'clock in the morning, or if he played Candy Crush until the battery crapped out instead of attempting to be a functional adult when out with friends.

It takes him a minute to realize that Steve is taking out all the unbroken components of his phone to transfer them, like some kind of crazy, robo-brain transplant. New backplate, new screen, all the same insides. Heart transplant maybe? Yeah, his phone is a lover, not a philosopher. Besides, James is pretty sure that his version of Siri is the one moron A.I. that Apple released on accident.

"What do you do?" Steve asks, fitting another piece into the new-old phone. "You know, when you're not breaking your phone."

"Haha," James says dryly with a roll of his eyes. Okay, yeah, so he has been jacking up his phone like it's his job this past week. He deserves some teasing about it. "I work at a bar."

"Like. . . as a bouncer?"

James narrows his eyes a little at that. "No, as a bartender. What, you think I look like a bouncer?"

Steve does this thing with his mouth where it moves but no sound comes out. It makes James want to bite his lips and suck on his tongue. "N-no! I just. . . I-I mean. . . Nevermind."

They go quiet again, but it's not as comfortable as it was earlier. James feels like he's going to buzz out of his skin if he doesn't find a way to keep this conversation going. But he doesn't know what to say. He didn't practice for this. Steve looks like he'd be fine if they were done talking, but James can't waste this opportunity a third time.

"It's 'cause I got these guns on me all the time, huh?" He knows it's stupid to try to flex and show off his bicep while he's still wearing a jacket, but James raises his arm and does it anyway. "Makes me look dangerous."

"Oh my god," Steve says, which is clearly the only appropriate response, and then they're both laughing and hey. This isn't so bad. Steve has his head tilted back, his laugh a full body event, and James loves the way Steve's hand comes up to grab his own chest like he needs it to help steady him. James drops the ridiculous pose and rests his forearms on the counter, grinning while he waits for Steve to catch his breath. There's a bit of a struggle that leaves him gasping, but finally Steve manages to add, "That's not what I meant!"

Maybe he can't be cool, but James will settle for being funny if it means he gets to see Steve smile at him like that, warm and open like James coming into the shop is the best thing that has happened all day.

"I'm practically a ghost story in the West Village. Strong, fast, metal as fuck," James goes on.

"You are not. Breaking your phone a lot is not metal."

"You haven't seen the things I've seen, Steve. You don't know what I'm capable of," he shoots back, bites down on his lip again and raises his brows cheekily. Steve's still red from laughing, so James can't tell if he blushes or not. The blond shakes his head and changes the subject.

"Why the West Village? You live there?" he asks instead.

"Nah, I'm a Brooklyn boy. Red Hook. But my bar's there."

"Me, too. Brooklyn, I mean."

"Yeah?" Nice. James is about to suggest that they go out sometime, since they're from the same area — which, okay, he realizes is a stupid pretense for asking someone on a date, but what-the-fuck-ever, he's a grown ass man and doesn't need any excuses, okay? — when Steve starts to slide the phone back across the counter to him.

"Yeah. Okay, I think I'm done here," he says and then pauses, as though a better idea occurred to him. "Gimme a sec?"

James nods. He would probably give this guy anything he asked for, he thinks, and is grateful that he isn't quite dumb enough to say that out loud. He watches as Steve snatches up the phone and ducks into the back room. A few minutes later he emerges with a smug little smirk. James's heart plummets the second Steve sets the phone down on the counter.

It's in a case.

A black, sturdy looking case that he probably won't be able to break shy of getting Natasha to run over it with her car. James looks up from the phone to Steve, not understanding. Steve looks so pleased with himself, but that falters a little at the perplexed look.

"It. . . I-I thought, you know, since you were always breaking your phone, you might need. . ." Steve tries to explain, his tone and smile stumbling. James forces a smile and just nods. Of course. Steve is just trying to help him out.

"Thanks," he says, and tries to make it sound like anything other than the huge disappointment he's feeling. Steve rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. "That's probably a good idea, huh?"

"Well, I just. . . we have other options? If you don't like this one, I mean. I just thought, you know, that it would go well. With." Steve makes a vague and embarrassed gesture towards James. "You."

James picks the phone up. The case isn't heavy or clunky or any of the things that he thinks he could use as an excuse to give it back. There is legit nothing wrong with it. Except that it _exists_ , and now James has to figure out what he's going to do because he can't imagine not coming back in and seeing Steve laugh and smile. He wants to know more about him and ask him out and get him pinned up against a wall and kiss him until he's gasping for breath. James keeps his fake smile on, but can feel it going tight around the edges. "Nah, it's cool. Thanks. What do I owe you?"

Steve fidgets for a moment before stuttering out the cost of the repairs. James pays up and shoves his wallet and phone back into his pocket before mumbling an apology about needing to be somewhere and heading for the door. He's halfway to the metro station when he realizes that Steve didn't charge him for the case.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who sent me Tumblr messages about dropping their phones in puddles, rivers, and boiling pasta water. :) The 'banging like a screen door in a hurricane' line is a reference to  Make up words to songs you used to know by This Girl is (non_sequential) on AO3.

* * *

Chapter 4.

Steve, clearly, hadn't thought this plan through all the way.

There hasn't been much in the way of work at the shop this past week, now that Bucky had a fancy case to keep him from destroying his phone every other day. Steve kept telling himself that he couldn't possibly miss the guy because he _barely knows him_ , geez. Who misses a stranger? Nobody, that's who. Definitely not Steve. He tells himself that he doesn't care, that he's glad the case is working, that he did Bucky a favor by giving it to him.

He's lying. Every single thing he has tried to draw in the last eight days looks like Bucky's stupid face.

Steve groans, tossing down his pen and closing his notebook. This is _ridiculous_. He. . . he did a good thing. The right thing. Probably saved him a lot of money in repairs. Bartenders couldn't make that much, right? He shouldn't be feeling awful for helping someone out.

He does feel awful, though, and he hates how selfish it is. Every time he hears the door open he hopes it's Bucky, hopes he'll see that smirk and dimpled chin, those pale eyes and that long hair. It's always someone else with some other dropped phone or damaged tablet.

Tuesday ends. Steve closes up shop. Reopens on Wednesday morning. He almost offers to take Phil's shift, too, just in case Bucky comes in near closing time, but keeps his resolve not to spiral into weirdo territory. Which all ends up out the window, anyway, because he starts Thursday morning by looking up bars in the West Village. Steve tries to figure out which one might be Bucky's but there are hundreds of possibilities, and he has no idea where to start. He doesn't even know what kind of a bar it is.

This leads to Steve spending the next three hours obsessively scanning Yelp reviews for mentions of a sinfully sexy bartender and feeling like a prepubescent spaz fail-stalking his crush.

Which he does not have. Because, damn it, he might be short but he has definitely outgrown that crap by now.

He tries FaceBook after his lunch break, thinking he'll have better luck searching there. How many people could have parents cruel enough to name them 'Bucky?' His first search spits back thousands of profiles. Heart sinking, Steve tries to refine the search to just men in New York. Even then, he scrolls passed photo after photo of guys who are not his Bucky before exiting out of the app as quickly as he can and stowing his phone for the remainder of his shift.

Because, oh god, Bucky isn't 'his,' _ugh_ , what is he doing? He can't go around arbitrarily 'claiming' people just because they get him hot under the collar. Who even _does that?_

Steve fully intends for that to be it, his one and only foray into half-cocked plans to find Bucky. But Steve is not a strong man. He is weak. So very, very weak. That's why he texts his friends Thursday night to propose a bar crawl through the West Village. Howard's whole weekend is booked with dates, like usual, and Edwin has been begging off every late night excursion that's come up ever since he met Ana abroad, but Sam replies back that he's free tomorrow. Peggy texts the group an artfully angled picture of four shots, lined up on a bar somewhere that is probably in Manhattan, with the caption: 'You poor darlings...should I wait for you to catch up?' Angie's response is just a string of heart-eye emojis.

It rains all day Friday, heavy and dark like the sky itself has declared war on Steve's latest mission. He frowns up at it from beneath his umbrella — a large red, white, and blue monstrosity that Howard got him as a joke on account of Steve's exceptionally patriotic birthday — on his way to work. A little bad weather certainly isn't going to put him, or any of his friends, for that matter, off, but it's still not a promising start.

The hours bleed by uneventfully. Steve hears the door open with only five minutes left on the clock. He sighs heavily, and looks up to inform the would-be customer that they're closing. The words die on his tongue and he stops, open-mouthed, to stare at the familiar man who enters.

It's Bucky — of course it is, because there is no justice in this world, Steve thinks — dripping wet and looking like the best damn thing he has ever seen. He shakes out his long hair, ruffling it at the back and getting water all over the entryway. His jacket is open and the dark shirt he's wearing underneath is thin, almost see-through where it's plastered to his chest from the rain. Steve finally manages to close his mouth and swallows hard, gaze riveted on the muscular outline he can make out.

Oh. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and _Joseph_. It feels like his lungs have just rage-quit his body in protest and he can't breathe. He's going to drop dead in the next five minutes, he just knows it. Bucky's gonna kill him with his abs and sculpted pecs and his stupid perfect smile, and all Steve can think about is how damn pissed off he's going to be if he dies without ever seeing this man naked.

"Hi," Bucky says after a long quiet moment, voice low and rough and sounding just a little bit flirty in his over-imaginative state. It gets Steve breathing again, a sharp intake of air that is shaky on the exhale as he drags his eyes up Bucky's body to his face just in time to see the man's tongue dart out to lick his lower lip. He wants nothing more than to dig his fingers into that wet collar and pull Bucky into the back room for some privacy. "Are you still open? I know I'm cutting it kind of close. . ."

Or they could forgo that, really, because the shop doesn't get much in the way of traffic and this close to closing they could probably just turn the lights off and Bucky could push him up against the back wall behind the counter. His skin is probably cold under those wet clothes. Steve's got bad circulation but he knows he could help warm Bucky up with kisses and sliding touches, could suck hot bruises onto his chest and along the cut lines disappearing into his jeans.

It takes Steve a minute to come out of the fantasy and realize that Bucky had said something and was waiting for him to respond.

"Yeah, no," Steve replies, and hopes he doesn't come across as wrecked as he feels right now. He's pretty sure that his heart is about two seconds away from imploding, and he's probably staring at Bucky like a starving man at a slab of meat. Crap. "No, we're not. . . we don't close 'til. . . I-I mean, there's time, yeah."

Bucky saunters up to the counter like he's got no idea what the sway of his body does to Steve's brain, dropping his phone on the glass top between them. Up close, Steve can see the tracks left by the water and where individual droplets are still clinging to Bucky's neck. He quickly diverts his gaze to the waterlogged device and tries to think of anything at all other than how painfully hard he's gotten in the last minute.

"Your phone looks like it survived a natural disaster," he says, taking in the cracking on the case and the shattered screen. Steve taps the home button but nothing happens. It probably needs to be dried out.

"It did. Me, Hurricane Bucky," the brunet shoots back with a smirk. Steve chuckles, so relieved to see him and hear his dumb jokes again that he starts to reply before he even realizes what he's saying:

"Yeah, you look like the kinda guy who could b—" _bang me like a screen door_. Steve freezes, his mouth going dry. Oh god. Oh _god_ , he almost _said_ that. And it's a line. Like, a truly awful line. _Christ_. He has no redeeming qualities as a human being.

"Who could?" Bucky repeats, prompting Steve to finish the thought. Steve looks up, wide-eyed and pale faced with panic. If he says that out loud, he's going to have to steal a plane and fly to the most remote place on the planet to spend the rest of his days. Somewhere deep in the Arctic Circle, where he can bury himself in the ice and snow and just hide out for a hundred years until everyone has forgotten what kind of terrible person he is.

"Be a hurricane?" he says instead, accidentally making it a question when the words crack and come out a little too high. Steve drops his head to fiddle with Bucky's phone. Anything so he doesn't have to see that quizzical expression on Bucky's stupid handsome face, _ugh_. This is so cosmically unfair. Why does there have to be talking? Steve is the worst at this.

"Okay. . ." Bucky drags out the vowel sounds for an extra beat, tucking his hands back into his pockets. Steve doesn't need to look up to know that he's being pouted at. They've met three times and he already knows what it sounds like when Bucky is trying to charm him into doing something. He wishes there was some kind of gay sign language he could use to bypass all this awkwardness and let Bucky know that it would be totally cool if he decided to just drop his pants and let Steve go down on him for days.

 _What_. No, Steve is absolutely not going to think about blowing Bucky. About getting on his knees, smiling up and licking his lips like he's hungry and can't wait to get his mouth on him, about how good Bucky would probably feel on his tongue, and how big his hands would be tangled in Steve's hair, tugging just a little to control the pace and depth, thrusting deep into the back of his throat and coming hot and bitter and —

God _damn it_ , Steve needs Jesus and a cold shower. He closes his eyes and fights down the small, sad whimpering sound that's trying to claw its way out of his throat.

"Do I gotta plan a funeral, or you think you can get it to pull through?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, ye-yeah, sure, I think?" he says, trying to get his head back into business mode. Steve fumbles around under the counter for the small screwdriver and starts working on separating the screen and backplate. "But I'll probably need to keep it for a couple of days. Gotta dry it out before I go replacing things. Is that okay?"

"Completely." Steve risks a glance up at Bucky to see him chewing his lip and looking away, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm, uhm. . . Sorry. About this."

"Wha—?"

"You just seem," Bucky pauses, struggling for the right word before settling on, "Mad."

"I'm not mad," he says quickly. And he isn't. He's horny and frustrated and confused about why Bucky thinks he needs to apologize to him, but he's not _mad_ at this ridiculous jerk. It's not his fault that Steve's a googly eyed dweeb who needs to have his speaking privileges permanently revoked.

"I mean, I would get it if you were," Bucky goes on with a little wince. "I hate it when people come in right when I'm trying to close down for the night."

"No, it's. . . we're cool, okay? Can I see you Tuesday?" Steve asks, pulling the battery out and starting on the connectors and logic board. And then, when he realizes what that sounds like, rushes to amend, "I-I mean, will you. . . Can I. . . you know, Tuesday. To pick up your phone."

Bucky gives him that lopsided little smirk and nods. "Sure."

There's really nothing else that Steve can do until he gives the parts an alcohol bath to remove whatever was in the water Bucky dropped it in, and then let it air dry in the back over the weekend. He just pushes it around on the counter, trying to find something else to say because he's not ready for the brunet to leave just yet. "I guess the case didn't work out?"

"Yeah, sorry about that." Another grimace. "Guess I need a waterproof one, y'know?"

"I can see if we've got any in the back," Steve offers, but Bucky shakes his head.

"Nah, don't sweat it. Maybe Tuesday?"

"Yeah, okay, cool." Steve fidgets again. His own phone is buzzing in his back pocket; it's probably Sam, announcing that he's on his way to drag Steve out to the West Village. He wants to ask where Bucky's bar is and if he's working tonight, but the question gets stuck in his throat and when he opens his mouth nothing comes out.

"Well. . . I guess I better. . . I better go, huh? Let you get outta here." Bucky doesn't seem any more thrilled with his own suggestion, hunching his shoulders in as he looks down and scuffs at the floor tiles with the toe of one wet boot. "Enjoy your weekend. I'll see you Tuesday, Steve."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

It's Tuesday.

"What the fuck am I going to say to him?" James hisses at the red-haired woman next to him on the subway for the third time in the last five minutes. Natasha doesn't rile at that, though, and just pulls one of her headphones out of her ear and tilts her head towards him so that he doesn't have to complain quite as loudly. "Like, what the actual fuck am I going to do?"

"You could just ask him on a date," Natasha suggests. This had been her recommendation last time he asked, as well. Totally unhelpful. "You know, like 'do you want to get coffee on your day off?' Or 'would you like to go see a movie with me sometime?' You could even go with the ever popular, very smooth, 'have you supported _your_ troops today?'"

"That's not funny," James snaps. " _You're_ not funny. You suck and I hate you. I'm having a crisis and you're making terrible jokes. Why are we friends?"

"Excuse me, _I_ have been on a successful date in this decade," she reminds him, popping her gum in his face. It smells like watermelon, sweet and at odds with her smile, which is decidedly sharklike. "And we're friends because my intel and experience are valuable, and without them, you'd probably be dead by now."

James sulks, because there was really nothing that he could say to counter that. She had a point, and he had been the one to ask her to accompany him to Steve's store. Really, her job was to make sure that he actually made it inside and didn't end up stalling on the sidewalk for three hours instead. His stomach is in knots and his palm is sweaty again; he feels worse about this than he had going to qualification ranges hungover. He has that awful, sinking feeling in the pit of his gut that warns him about impending disaster, like this time, when the Control Tower tells him to flip his selector switch from 'safe' to 'semi,' he is going to go straight to 'balls-to-the-wall, fully automatic fuck up' instead. Because of course he is. He's James Barnes, and his additional skill identifier is for Fucking Things Up Spectacularly.

"Fuuuuuck," he groans, leaning to the side and resting his head on Natasha's shoulder. She brings a hand up to roughly pat at his cheek in an approximation of a comforting gesture, except that there is absolutely nothing comforting or peaceful or sympathetic about Natasha Romanov. Her friendship is cold and barren like her soul. "What if I say something stupid and he never wants to see me again?"

"Okay, one: you always say stupid shit, so either that's part of his aesthetic or you two are never working out. And two: if he doesn't want to see you again, just stop breaking your phone, dumbass."

"You are legit the worst friend ever."

"You are a drama queen, and putting up with you is the cross I bear to atone for my sins," Natasha tells him with an annoyed huff. James rolls his eyes and they both push each other away as their exit comes up. He can hear her mutter something about 'ground-pounders' and 'rocks for brains,' but chooses to ignore it. She had been the intelligence analyst attached to his unit from the Brigade when they deployed, doubling as their interpreter and, occasionally, as their interrogator. Compared to Natasha, he is a fucking idiot, and if she wants to gripe about eleven bang-bang bulletstoppers, she's earned that right and then some.

They push their way out of the subway station and onto the street, heading for S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs. It's not until they reach the corner that James starts to feel panicky again. He's had five fucking days to figure out what he was going to say, and he can't remember what he'd decided to open with it. His hand darts out to grab Natasha by the arm when they stop on the sidewalk outside the store, and the look she gives him is totally unimpressed.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now."

"Natasha, what if he —"

"Barnes, you self-propelled sandbag," she interrupts, fixing him with a murderous glare that would have made lesser men wilt under its intensity and leaves James squirming. "Put your Ranger panties on and get in there, or cute boys rejecting your lame-ass advances will be the _least_ of your concerns."

She's right. Of course she is. James sighs and hangs his head, letting go of her. He grumbles a dejected 'yes, ma'am' and troops up to the door. His skin feels too tight and he's still nervous as fuck, but he's got his orders now and it needs to get done. He needs his phone and, really, the world won't end if he asks Steve out and the guy says no. The bell chimes as he steps inside, trying to steel himself for the interaction, and he opens his mouth to call out to the blond behind the counter when Steve looks up.

Somebody hit his boy in the face.

The realization leaves him shocked and breathless, like all the air in the room has just been sucked out into a vacuum. His mouth goes desert dry as he takes in Steve's split lip and scuffed chin, where it looks like it's just beginning to scab over. Steve's got a stitched up cut under one eyebrow, and the purple-black bruising of a nasty shiner all along his eyelid and fanning down to stain his cheekbone. There's a shadow under his skin tainting the bridge of his crooked nose. James feet move him forward on auto-pilot, and as he nears the counter, he can see that Steve's iris is surrounded by red from a burst blood vessel.

Somebody. Hit. _His fuckin' boy_. In the face.

James isn't sure when he had made the decision that Steve was his boy, and yeah, okay, it's stupid to think like that considering that they haven't really talked at all and they definitely aren't together or anything. But Steve is _so_ his boy. James has just been working up to it. And then some dirty motherfucker went and hit him.

He's gonna fuckin' kill somebody.

"Hey," Steve says, voice carefully controlled as he lifts his battered chin defiantly, daring James to say something about his injuries. James's hands are shaking at his sides, so he balls them into fists and shoves them deep into the pockets of his jacket. He wants to say something. He wants to get names and physical descriptions and hunt down whoever was responsible for hurting his boy. "I fixed your phone."

James's phone is literally the last thing on his mind right now. His teeth are grinding together with how tense his jaw is and he knows that his gaze has narrowed into that thousand-yard death stare that creeps out his landlord, and shit. _Shit_. Steve puts James's phone on the counter between them, and squares his shoulders like he's prepping for another fight.

Like he's prepping for a fight _with James_. Holy fuck, that sobers him up quick. He needs to chill. Steve's a grown ass man and he doesn't need James's machismo offering to bring down fire and vengeance on some bullies. That's some patronizing bullshit right there, and James knows that if some stranger tried a line on him like that he'd knock the asshole's teeth in. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath.

"This happen a lot to you?" he asks without preamble, which isn't what he wanted to say but he supposes that it's a step up from asking about who hit him. Steve shrugs, but his body relaxes just a little.

"No, y'know, not many people demolish their phones on a weekly basis."

"Huh? Oh. No, I meant. . ." James removes his hands from his pocket, reaching out to take one of Steve's by the wrist. The fingers are cold where James brushes past them, knuckles colored in blues and violet, tinged yellow where they're starting to heal. A couple of them are scraped up and must have been bloody earlier. James frowns, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle between the bones of Steve's wrist. Steve was probably sore along his tendons from where his wrist absorbed the shock of the blows. His voice softens as he tenderly asks, "Didn't you ever learn not to pick fights you can't win?"

Steve scowls, and James feels like an absolute dick for being the cause of that dark expression.

"If it's worth it, if it's a good reason, then it doesn't matter if I'll win or not, because some battles just need to be fought, Buck," Steve answers, his own tone low and defensive, but the shortening of James's nickname is just as obvious a sign of unintentional affection as James's touch had been. Steve doesn't look up at James, instead keeping his eyes intent on their hands.

He's glad for that. Everything he's feeling is probably right there on his face, out in the open for anybody to see. He's getting all soft and mushy over this shit. Fuck his whole life right now if he isn't falling in love with this little fucking punk who thinks that he needs to fight the good fight, win or lose. He's gonna worry himself to death over this moron.

"Besides, you oughta see the other guy."

"Well, ain't you a regular ol' hero?" he retorts, lifting that bruised hand and pressing his lips gently to the busted knuckles. His eyes close at the contact, so he misses Steve's change in expression, but not the sharp hiss of a startled inhale. Everything is painfully silent for a few seconds that stretch out like eternity, just his mouth on Steve's hand, his heart beating too loud in his chest, before Steve breaks it with a nervous laugh. He withdraws his hand, blushing hard and looking anywhere but at James.

And that's when it clicks, sliding into place. Steve likes him. Maybe not as much as James likes Steve, but Steve _definitely_ likes him, at least a little bit. It makes James's mouth crook up into a mischievous smirk. Steve is running his tongue over the split in his lip, working it open again and the red of it catches James's attention. "You're gonna bleed, if you keep that up, Steve."

"Yeah?" Steve's chin juts out just a little, a bright and rebellious spark in his eyes. It makes James's heart stutter-step. "You gonna try to kiss that better, too?"

And fuck yeah, that sounds like an awesome suggestion. James grins and leans forward on the counter, catching Steve's jaw with one hand to tilt the blond's face up.

"I only kiss punks who ask nicely," he informs Steve, moving closer until their faces are barely an inch apart, his breath warm where it ghosts over the other man's lips. Their noses bump. "Well, Stevie? You askin'?"

There's a pause, and for half a second, James worries that he finally overstepped some invisible boundary. But Steve just closes his eyes, and those long long lashes are even more ridiculous up this close. He takes a breath like he thinks it might be his last, and says, "Maybe I am."

So James kisses him. Just leans in that last bit and slots their lips together like this was the plan all along. It's soft and tender and he does it with all the love he can muster, like maybe this will be the only kiss he ever gets. Like maybe his whole life has been leading up to this one moment, and if he doesn't get it right, if Steve pulls away not knowing how badly James needs him in his life, he'll regret it forever. It tastes a little bit like blood, but Steve's lips are plush and smooth and everything James thought they'd be, and when he feels that pressure on his mouth, that hesitant reciprocation, it feels like the most perfect kiss he has ever experienced.

James moves to pull away and finds Steve's hands on the back of his neck and cupping his face, one tangling into his long hair and holding him in place. "Don't stop," comes the murmur, words slurring messily against his lips. James takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, to make it open-mouthed and hungry, and is rewarded with an appreciative noise from Steve.

But the edge of the counter is digging into his stomach where he's pressed against it, and he needs to be so much closer. He needs to feel Steve's body against his own, needs to slide his hands along those slim hips and up under that loose shirt. James pushes Steve back hard with one hand on his chest, making the blond stumble, as he hefts himself over the counter. He knocks his phone off the glass and onto the floor with a crash, but doesn't really notice.

Steve is on him the moment his boots hit the ground on the other side, fingers curling into his jacket lapels and yanking him down for another searing kiss. James shifts, spreading his legs so that he can fit Steve between them and moaning at the way the other man rolls his hips against his own for friction. He gets a hand onto Steve's ass and gives it a little squeeze, and swears to god that he might come right then and there.

"Back room," Steve demands, dragging James away from the counter. "Right now."

"The shop?" he asks in a daze, glad that his neurons are still sort of firing. James gives zero fucks about anything that could possibly be getting in the way of what promises to be _at least_ the most epic make out session of his entire life, but he's vaguely aware of not wanting Steve to get fired or the shop to get robbed. Steve just shakes his head, nudging the door open with his shoulder as he walks backwards into the darkened room.

"It's a _goddamn Tuesday_ , Bucky; nobody comes in on a Tuesday."

"Oh my fucking god," James says as they crash through the door and he gets Steve pinned up against the shelves. "You're perfect."

Steve kisses him again, and James forgets how to think.


End file.
